


There you go again, making me love you

by coldflashwavebaby



Series: Will Write By Request [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Pre-Canon, Time Skips, Young Leonard Snart, Young Mick Rory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldflashwavebaby/pseuds/coldflashwavebaby
Summary: “Closest I ever came to dying was the day I met Mick […] He's been standing up for me ever since.”





	There you go again, making me love you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nirejseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/gifts).



> A commission for robininthelabyrinth. I hope you like it!

**1986**

            Breaking the Santini kid’s nose had been a joy.

            The little snot had been parading around the yard since he arrived, acting like he owned the place just because his pops was in the mafia. He hadn’t made a move against Mick—people knew better than to screw with him, since his cellmate’s mattress ‘accidentally’ caught on fire with him still on it—but he made a point to assert himself on every newbie that walked in. 

            The crooked cop’s kid was no different.

            Rumor was that the kid had taken the fall for his old man after a botched job for the Santini family. Now, the Santini’s wanted to make an example of him for all the other people on the take.

            Mick was staring into the flames of his freshly-stolen lighter when he heard the ruckus. Fists hitting skin, muffled cries of pain, taunts and jeers. He ripped his eyes away from the flame just in time to see Lucas Santini pull a shiv the back of his pants, and his first thought was, “That’s a nice shiv. I’m going to stick him with it.”

            Because impulse control wasn’t really Mick’s thing, the next minute he found himself across the yard, one hand wrapped around the arm holding the shiv. Lucas didn’t know what hit him, but Mick would never forget it.

            Lucky for their victim, the Santini’s inspired paper loyalty—easily made, easily ripped to pieces—and the rest of the crew ran for their lives. Mick punched Lucas again, and again, until he was bleeding and crying out for him to stop.

            In the end, it was a groan of pain on the ground that finally stopped his fist.

            The kid that they’d ganged up on was still lying in the grass, his knees pulled to his stomach and his arms shielding his face and head. He was still breathing, though, which was as far as Mick cared. That is, until four guards rushed over.

            Mick looked at the two beat up kids on the ground and sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to solitary confinement. So, he pulled out his lighter, flicked it open, and, by the time the guards got there, the broken skin on Mick’s knuckles were covered by fresh burns that now covered his entire hand.

            The three of them were carted off to the infirmary, one guard carrying the cop’s kid, one leading the Santini kid in the front, and another, one of the nicer guards, Lawrence, pulled him along behind.

            “Glad to see you’re making friends, Mick,” Lawrence chuckled.

            Mick grunted and shrugged. No reason to say that the reason he’d defended the kid was so he could steal the shiv and get Santini. If they wanted to think he saved the kid for nice reasons, let them think it.

            “You know,” the guard continued, “we haven’t put him in a cell yet. You still don’t have a cellmate—maybe it’d be a good fit?”

            Mick rolled his eyes, but stayed silent.

            They finally arrived at the infirmary, and Mick and the new kid were led into one section, while Santini was led into another. Probably something about his own safety or some garbage.

            New kid was laid out on the bed beside Mick’s, and they were both cuffed down.

            “The doc will be here soon,” Lawrence told him, though that usually meant that they’d come in, take one look, and then leave them for two hours, “so, please, behave, Mick.”

            He gave a small nod, if for no other reason than to get the guards to go outside the door. Finally, he was alone.

            _Well_ , he thought as a groan came from the other bed, _almost._

            He turned to tell the other kid to shut it, but froze in place. For the first time, he got a look at the kid. He was… _beautiful_ , nothing like what Mick had pictured from the snot-nosed kid of a crooked cop. His skin was flawless, his lips plump, his eyes lashes pretty enough to rival any girl’s…

            Mick cursed his teenage hormones as he felt his pants tighten. The kid turned his head towards Mick, revealing the purpling bruises and broken skin on his face. His eyes, though…they sparkled when they looked at him, and, for the first time in his life, Mick felt like he was worth something.

            “I’m Leo,” the kid whispered hoarsely.

            “Mick,” he grunted back.

            The kid smiled. “Thanks…for what you did. No one’s ever stood up for me before.”

            Mick almost, _almost_ smiled back, but the door opened, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room. Dr. Wheaton walked inside, clipboard in hand, and sighed when he saw Leo’s state. He hurried over to his side and tutted over him.

            “I’m going to give you some painkillers,” he said, handing the kid some pills. He downed them quickly. “When I come back, I’m going to wrap that wrist—it’s not broken, probably just sprained. Rory,” he turned his attention to Mick, shaking his head when he saw his hand, “I’ll get your usual cream. You remember how to bandage it, right?”

            Mick nodded. Wheaton was pretty okay. He cared about the kids, unlike a lot of people in corrections. He even taught Mick how to care for his burns so they wouldn’t scar as bad. If he were to burn down the prison, he’d leave the infirmary, just for Wheaton.

            The doc grabbed the cream and bandages out of the bedside table drawer and handed it to Mick. “I’ll be right back. I need to check on our _other_ patient.”

            From the other room, they could hear Lucas whining and moaning like he was dying. Fucking drama queen. Once Wheaton disappeared through the door and it clicked shut behind him, Leo turned to him with a shit-eating grin.

            “Hey,” he whispered, nabbing Mick’s attention back. He reached into the pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out a ring of keys. _Dr. Wheaton_ ’s keys, to his _drug locker._ “Wanna do some shopping?”

            Mick was impressed. Wheaton had been in the business for a long time, and he’d never heard of anyone being able steal off of him. But…

“What about these?” He yanked up his arm to show the restraints cuffing him to the bed.

Leo chuckled, mirroring Mick’s movement, only to have his cuff fall off his wrist. “Magic.”

0000000

            They hadn’t even checked either of them when they were escorted back to their cell—because, yes, Lawrence had pulled some strings and gotten Mick saddled with the fish. It was okay though, as long as the kid kept stealing good stuff.

            As soon as it was lights out, Mick jumped down to the bottom bunk, where Leo was waiting with a handful of pills. Mick took only took two, knowing that if he got too out of his mind, he might wake up with the whole cell on fire. Leo, on the other hand, took about four. Luckily, they didn’t seem like anything too dangerous. The two leaned back on Leo’s bunk, staring up at the stained mattress over their heads.

            Time dragged, and Mick felt his body light up. He was floating, his problems meaningless. So what that he was in juvie for second-degree murder? Everything at the moment felt okay.

            Leo started giggling. The kid was higher than a kite, higher than anyone Mick had seen. The giggling was turning into full on belly laughs, and Mick knew he had to silence the kid before the guards decided to come check on them and find them high. He threw himself over Leo, straddling his thighs, and put a hand over his mouth.

            The laughs silenced. Ice blue eyes bored into Mick’s, the color shrinking to a thin ring around his pupils. Something undeniable pressed into his thigh, and the air grew hot and heavy. He dropped the hand not over Leo’s mouth slowly between them.

            When he touched Leo, air punched out of the kid. They were both still high— _so high_ —but that just made the experience so much better. Mick woke up the next morning feel sated, with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

            From that day on, he and Leo Snart were inseparable. By day, Mick watched his back, fighting off the Santini’s, kids his pops arrested, anyone who tried to lay a finger on him. By night, he had Leo on his knees or on his back, taking pleasure from him in ways he never had. He found something he loved almost as much as fire, something that pushed away that need, if only for a while.

            It wasn’t until the day after Leo Snart was released, a little over nine months later, that Mick’s idea of what’d happened shattered.

            He’d been sent to the infirmary again for a fight—some newb who thought it was smart to pick a fight with the biggest kid he saw to establish street cred—and was listening to Wheaton and the guards while his broken hand was wrapped up.

            “Heard Snart left, Rory,” Lawrence said. “Sorry to hear about that. Maybe the two of you can meet up in a few months, after your release?”

            Mick grunted, not saying that he and Leo already made a plan to meet at the diner across the street from the CCPD.

            “It’s a good thing he had someone like you watching out for him in here,” Wheaton decided to chime in. “So many people in here would’ve taken advantage of someone like him.”

            Mick frowned. “Like what?”

            Wheaton tensed, like he’d shared too much, and glanced back at Lawrence. “Well…given his history with abuse, with his father. Leo doesn’t have a good history of standing up for himself, or saying no. There are some incidents in his file…but, he didn’t have to worry about that here, thankfully.”

            It was like a truck had hit Mick. Had Leo only slept with him because he thought he didn’t have a choice?

But that first night…

The first night, he’d been high. What if he thought that, as payment for Mick’s protection, he _had_ to have sex with Mick? Was he Mick’s prison bitch?

Mick was sent back to his cell reeling, his entire relationship with Leo twisted into something ugly. Fourteen—the kid was _fourteen._ At the time, Mick had told himself he was only three years older than him, but what business did a seventeen, almost eighteen, year old have with a fourteen-year-old? Their relationship wasn’t what Mick thought. Hell, it wasn’t what _Leo_ thought. Leo, that abused kid, probably thought the situation was normal—give something to get something, even if you don’t want to.

Mick made a decision, sitting in that cell.

Three months later, Leo Snart waited twelve hours in that diner for Mick Rory to appear. Then, he came by every day for the next week, just to make sure his dates were right. But Mick never came. Leo was better without him. He wouldn’t make that choice, so Mick did for him.

They would never see each other again.

           

0000000

**1990**

            Who would’ve thought, four years after knocking Lucas Santini’s teeth down his throat, Mick would find himself _working_ for the same smarmy dickbag?

            Not many people wanted to take a chance on a pyro when fire wasn’t involved, though. People thought he was too dumb to be any real worth on a job. Lucas Santini knew better, though. If anything, he’d taken that juvie beating as a sign that, if you earned Mick’s loyalty, he’d ride or die. Not that he’d ever swear loyalty to a Family, but whatever lie it took to earn some cash.

            The latest hit was a charity event in Hub City. The event was held by a rival Family, the Darbinyan’s. Lucas, Mick, and three rent-a-thugs were supposed to crash the party, shoot it up, steal valuables from the guests, and get out before the cops showed up.

            Mick and Lucas were sent in as guests. Lucas had to show his face for appearance sake, while Mick was to sneak out of the ballroom of the hotel, into the kitchen, and open the backdoor for the other guys.

            He checked his watch. Still had another half hour before he needed to sneak away. His mouth watered when his eyes caught sight of the snack table. He had time. There was always time for bacon wrapped food.

            A moan escaped his lips as he shoved one of the twenty bacon-wrapped mushrooms that he’d piled on his plate into his mouth.

            “Never thought I’d hear that sound again.”

            Mick nearly choked. Slowly, with a thousand prayers to any god there possibly could be, he turned around. There, less than a foot away from him, dressed in a fitted tux, fake glasses, and that classic smirk, was little Leo Snart, all grown up.

            And just as beautiful as he remembered.

            _No, Mick!_ He scolded himself. _He’s just another victim, another person whose life you ruined. You raped the kid, took advantage of him._

But the sparkle in Snart’s eyes wasn’t the glare a victim would give their rapist. No, Mick’s stomach lurched. It was that same near-worshipping look he’d given all those years ago in the infirmary. That made it worse. _So_ much worse.

            Anger flared inside of him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled, taking a step back and putting his plate on the snack table. He’d lost his appetite.

            Snart frowned, like he thought Mick would just go back to the way things had been at juvie. What a dumb smart guy. Was he always just asking for abuse?

            “ _I’m_ here conning the recently widowed Mrs. LaRoch out of her stolen inheritance, which is over $1.5 million. I’m guessing _you’re_ here because you’re planning on robbing the place. Thought I’d come by and check to see when that was happening so I can move my plan along.”

            He nodded behind him, and Mick caught sight of a wrinkly hag dressed like Cruella De Vil, but with a thick choker of diamonds around her neck. She watched them both in that creepy, lustful way old people who thought they were young watched young people. It twisted something raw in his stomach, but he forced himself to ignore it.

            “You better get your old lady and scram then, kid,” he growled, pushing past. One glance down at his watch said that it was five minutes until time. “Shit’s about to go down.”

            He didn’t even bother looking back at Snart as he snuck back into the kitchen. Why did it bother him that he was honey potting some old lady? She didn’t seem like some sweet, doddery widow. If anything, she reminded Mick of one of those women who married rich, killed their husbands for their money, and then moved on to some young catch. That’s probably _exactly_ the kind of woman she was.

            Maybe it bothered him because he thought Snart was too smart for that. Maybe because she saw him as a piece of meat, when the kid was smarter than anyone in the whole damn hotel.

            Not that he cared. He didn’t have the right to care. And he _didn’t._

            He rolled his eyes as he came to the backdoor. Fucking Snart just _had_ to be there. With a loud groan, he pushed open the door. The three thugs hurried inside.

            “Bout damn time, Rory!” The first one huffed, shoving a ski mask and gun in his hand. Mick grunted, not caring about whatever the thugs thought, only that he needed to do the job and get out. He pulled on the mask and followed the three idiots back out into the ballroom.

            The first idiot fired the first shots into the ceiling.

            “Money on the ground!” he shouted. “Any valuables, really. This is a robbery!”

            Screams echoed through the room, and all array of money, jewelry, and furs dropped on the floor. Mick scanned the room for Snart and his old lady, but they were gone. Good, less distractions. He grabbed a sack from one of the thugs and started moving around the room, loading it with the goods.

            Until another gunshot went off, and he heard a howl of pain. Instinct took over, and Mick dove behind the nearest table—which, funnily enough, was the same table he’d been standing at with Snart not ten minutes before—and flipped it over, just in time to hear a machine gun go off.

            He cursed. They’d been ratted out. How else would the Darbinyan’s have known to bring their big guns? There were more painful yells, and Mick knew he was the last one standing. He pulled out his gun and waited for them to reload.

            He took a quick peek around the table, and noticed something. Behind one of the cocktail tables, near where the rest of the guests were cowering, was Lucas Santini _smiling_ , raising a pistol of his own _._

            That little sleaze ball.

            Mick prepared to shoot at him, when the Darbinyan’s finished reloading.

            A shout of “Get down!” drew his attention and he dropped to the floor just as gunshots rang out again. A sharp pain cut through his side, and, when he glanced down, red was staining his white shirt. He didn’t even have to look to see that it was Lucas that shot him.

            His vision started to fade. Damn, did that mean the bullet hit something important? His ears rang when more shouts erupted, and Mick saw the most beautiful thing in the world cut him off from the rest of the room— _fire_. A fucking wall of it. Then, gorgeous Leo Snart dropped in front of him, his face wreathed in the flames like a halo.

            Was he dead? It seemed like his perfect afterlife if he was. His last thought before he passed out was that he wished that, before he died, he’d punched Lucas Santini in the face one more time.

0000000

            He hadn’t expected to wake up.

            That was just a pleasant surprise.

            There were no blinding lights when he woke up, and his arm wasn’t handcuffed to his bed, which was a good sign. At least Snart was smart enough not to take him to the hospital.

He jerked up at the thought. Snart…he’d been with him when he passed out. Pain pulled at his side as he tried to sit up.

            “Shhh…” a warm hand fell to his shoulder and pushed him back against the bed. His eyes drifted closed. “You’ll pull your stitches. It was a bitch putting them in the first time. Did you know that you kick in your sleep?”

            He hummed to himself, reveling in the comfort of the hand stroking against the bare skin on his arm.

            “Damn, you’ve grown up nice, Mick,” his visitor said, fingers now dancing across the few burn scars littering his chest. “I’ve missed you.”

            Mick hummed again. “Missed you, too, Leo…”

            He felt weariness overtaking him, and a calm safeness blanketed him. He was about to drift back off, when the weight of what he’d said hit him.

            “Snart?!” He shot back up again, ignoring the pain this time as he turned to stare at the younger man. Snart was sitting beside him on the bed, changed into a black t-shirt and pair of jeans. On the bedside table was a porcelain bowl with a giant pair of tweezers in it, a sewing kit, and some bandages. “What the hell?!”

            Snart rolled his eyes. “There’s gratitude,” he complained, though his smirk said he wasn’t near as annoyed as he acted. “I throw away one of the biggest scores of my life by setting a hotel ballroom on fire to save your life, drag your heavy ass three blocks, hotwire a truck to drive you to my apartment, and then pull a bullet from your body and stitch you up, and all I get is growling.”

            He reached up to touch Mick’s face, but the pyro moved away. “Yeah, well…I didn’t ask you to do that. Shoulda left me behind, like any other self-serving criminal.”

            Snart rolled his eyes. “What’s your issue? You’ve been a cranky ass since you saw me. And I mean more than usual.”

            _Maybe because every time I look at you, it reminds me that I’m a child rapist_ , Mick thought. He pretended to ignore Snart, though, as he scanned the floor, trying to find his shirt.

            A small whistle drew his attention back to Snart, who was holding his bloodied shirt between two fingers, teasingly. “Besides, who says I wasn’t being self-serving? After all, I got to see all that.”

            His eyes dropped to Mick’s bare torso—which, yeah, he worked out and had been told by a lot of bed partners that he was hot, but he didn’t want to hear it from Leonard Snart of all people. He reached over to snatch the shirt from the kid’s hands, but Snart pulled it back at the last second with a playful laugh. Mick jerked in surprise. He’d never seen Snart so relaxed and open, not even in juvie.

            “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

            Snart’s smirk relaxed and, before he knew it, was lunging across the bed. He grabbed Mick and crashed their lips together.

It was…new. Different.

            For all that gone on back in juvie, they had never kissed. Fucked, sure. But never kissed. Snart was uncoordinated and frantic, climbing into Mick’s lap as he tried to deepen the kiss. Was it his first kiss? Had he stolen _that_ from him too?

            With more force than intended, he threw Snart out of his lap and completely off the bed. There was a hiss of pain from where he’d landed, but Mick pushed away his concern. He grabbed the shirt Snart had dropped on the bed when he came at him and pulled it on as he jumped up from the bed.

            “What the hell…?” Snart sat up, so Mick could only see his head. His eyes were confused, a small frown marring his face.

            “You…” Mick was shaking. He couldn’t think. He could barely move. So, he did the only thing he knew he _could_ do—he got angry. “You…little shit!” He snarled. “Don’t ever do that again! You stay away from me, if you know what’s good for you!”

            “What the hell is wrong with you?” Snart frowned. “We did more than that back in juvie!”

            Mick shuddered. “That was a mistake. _You_ were a mistake!”

            Snart flinched, and Mick tried not to think about how many times his abusive dad had told him that.

            “You don’t know nothin’ about the world. You don’t know anything!”

            “You don’t know me!” Snart snarled.

            Mick’s nostrils flared. “You’re just some dumb kid. What the hell do you know?”

            “At least I’m not dumb enough to work with a two-faced backstabber like Lucas Santini. What the hell were you thinking, Mick? He hates both of our guts and you know it! Of _course_ he was going to double-cross you!”

            Mick glared, but Snart didn’t recoil this time, or show any sign of fear. He didn’t need this, especially not from Leonard Snart. With nothing but an animalistic growl, he found the push to practically run out the door of the bedroom, through the tiny, rundown apartment the kid had clearly been squatting in, and out the front door.

            Once he was a couple blocks away, Mick fell back against the wall of a closed down butcher shop. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

How… _why_ would Leonard Snart want him like that? What kind of sick game was he playing? Mick’s body was still shaking, and he just couldn’t stop. He needed to get away—as far from that damn kid as he possibly could, and as far from the Santini’s as he could. Without the money from that job, he was in a real load of shit.

            About 100K worth of shit, actually. Doesn’t matter that Lucas Santini betrayed the crew. He’d promised the family money, and they would be expecting it.

            He reached into his pocket—there was a torn receipt, a dirty napkin with a phone number, and a fifty-dollar bill. Enough for a bus ticket, he decided. He ran for the station, leaving Leonard Snart, the Santini’s, and—hopefully—all of his troubles behind.

0000000

 

**1994**

Mick spent the next few years moving from city to city, making a name for himself as hired muscle and an arsonist in Hub, Coast, Keystone, Starling...

The Santini’s kept him on his toes. It’d been four years, and they still wanted his head for the 100K he owed them. Mick had barely taken down the last gun for hire that caught up with him in Keystone with his face intact. And, despite what most people thought, he was fond of his face.

His nose was his best feature.

So, he tried for quieter jobs in the quietest town he could find—Midway City.

            It was a bust. The crime there was low, and the pigs way too good at their jobs for Mick’s comfort. He’d laid low for about awhile, committed a low-level crime here and there before, only three months into laying low, he got antsy.

            He’d thought that building he’d burnt down was abandoned. But, no, it was being built.

            Rookie mistake.

            So, as the cops hunted him, he snatched his bag, stuck out his thumb, and hitched his way back to Central. Other than Keystone, it was the only place he really knew, and, unlike Keystone, the only one without outstanding warrants against him. The Santini’s were still a problem—Central was their home, their base of operations—but all he had to do was lay low until he could get the cash he owed. He’d saved up almost 70K doing small jobs in Midway and Coast City. All he needed was 30 more, and he was a free man. He needed a job, bad. And, in Central, there was one place to go when a criminal needed a job.

            No less than three letters on the neon of Saints & Sinners were out, and one was flickering enough to give an epileptic a seizure. But, from the number of bikes, vans, and, most likely, stolen cars in the front, the bar was full, which was good news for Mick. People came to Saints looking for low lives, and most of those people paid.

            The inside was as rundown as Mick remembered—the floor sticky and covered in peanut shells, two broken chairs leaned against the wall by the door, and at least five bikers were hovering around the scratched-up pool table, their glares piercing as he walked past.

            He headed straight for the bar, where the bartender, Darlene, was pouring him a whiskey. He gave her a nod before throwing it back.

            “Nice to see you back in town, Mickey,” she croaked, her throat damaged from years of smoking. “Had some people asking about you—some good, some bad, some downright naughty.”

            “Good to be back,” he responded, sliding the glass back to her. “Any of those people looking for some muscle for a job?”

            Darlene raised one drawn-on eyebrow. “Still in deep with the Santini’s?”

            Mick grunted. Darlene was source of information in Central—she knew everything about everybody.

            “Well,” she sighed, pouring him another drink, “there was someone—a real up-and-comer. Not a lot under his belt, but the jobs he’s done—masterpieces. He could be something someday.”

            To be honest, Mick couldn’t give a shit, as long as he got the money and didn’t get caught. The way that Darlene spoke about this guy, though…he’d never heard her talk about anyone like that. He wanted to meet this guy.

            “How do I sign on?”

            Darlene’s eyes flickered over to a booth. “There’s a man over there—name’s Sam Scudder. He’s the point of contact. A real jackass, but the boss of the crew likes to stand back and watch the people before they meet him. One of _those_ kids, y’know?”

            The anal ones. The kind who want to look at the entire game board before deciding their next move. He’d never worked with one, but he’d heard of the type. They usually varied from successful to getting shot by their own crew because they couldn’t take it anymore.

            He was interested to see which this guy would be.

            He gave Darlene a nod and grabbed his whiskey. As he turned to head for the booth, though, he collided with someone. His drink spilt all over them, the glass falling out of his hand and shattering on the floor. He cursed.

            “Watch where you’re going, you—” But, when he raised his head to glare at the other man, he was met with familiar, cold blue eyes. His heart stopped.

            No.

            There was no way in hell he was _that_ unlucky that he would run into Snart _the day he came back._

            But, there he was, staring wide-eyed back at Mick, even as the whiskey bled through his t-shirt—and _damn_ why did it have to be white? It was practically see-through now, revealing everything underneath.

            He tore his eyes away from the kid’s chest, only to meet Snart’s equally distracting eyes. Something stirred in his stomach as they stared silently into each other’s eyes.

            “Mick…” The younger man reached out, like he wanted to make sure he wasn’t a hallucination, but Mick quickly caught it by the wrist.

            “Don’t,” he snarled, “touch me.”

            He pushed past the kid, hoping he finally got the message. Snart didn’t try to stop him. As Mick strode over to the booth, he felt the kid’s eyes on his back, but he brushed it off. Snart didn’t know what was good for him. He was just a stupid, abused kid who kept torturing himself by running at every fire that was gonna burn him.

            Mick was done being that fire.

            The guy at the booth was about a year younger than Mick, with stubble starting to show on his face, and a gleam in his eye that told Mick he would turn on him the second it did something for him. But, he didn’t have any options—if he didn’t pay up soon, the next gun he saw would be pointed between his eyes. So, he took a seat.

            “Darlene says you’re setting up a crew.”

            The guy raised an eyebrow. “Not me, but I’m in charge of looking over candidates. Guy in charge doesn’t like his face and name being out there yet.”

            Mick rolled his eyes. That usually meant either someone with a lot of warrants to their name, or someone trying to sound impressive. “Whatever. Name’s—”

            “Mick Rory. I know. Arsonist, killer, thief. Boss is a fan of yours.”

            Mick frowned. How did the boss know he was going to be there? He scanned the room, searching for anyone watching them, but Snart was the only person who stood out to him, and he was facing the bar, sipping on a glass of whiskey.

            “Really?”

            The man nodded. “He’s already told me he’s interested in you joining the job. Told me to give you this,” he slid a piece of paper across the table with a time, date, and address, “and tell you to come if you’re still interested.”

            Mick wanted to grab the note—he needed a job. He _needed_ a job. But the situation was making him twitchy. “What _is_ the job?”

            “Boss’ll tell us then,” the man answered with a shrug. “He’s secretive—doesn’t like other people knowing what he’s got goin’ on.”

            A harsh, whispered voice behind him drew his attention back to the bar. His fist clenched when he saw a man—an old, weathered, has-been who still thought he was something in the underground world—leaned against the bar beside Snart, pushed up in his face with his hand wrapped around Snart’s wrist.

            “I said _back off!_ ” He clearly heard Snart say as he tried to rip his arm free. The old fart wasn’t having that, though. He went for Snart’s throat with his other hand, pulling him out of his seat and dragging him even closer.

            “Your pops owes me a _lot_ of money, brat,” he snarled. “Now, how I figure it, you can either give it to me now, or I can take it out of you however I want.”

            Mick didn’t know what prompted him to jump to his feet, quickly snatching the paper off the table to shove in his pocket. He didn’t even remember striding over to the bar. The only thing he did remember was the satisfaction he felt when he drove his fist into the old fart’s nose, knocking him so hard against the bar, he fell unconscious to the floor.

            Snart stumbled back, his eyes darting between Mick and his attacker. When his eyes filled with that light—the praise, the adoration, the _affection_ —Mick knew he’d made a mistake. Without saying a word, he ran for the backdoor of the pub, hoping to get away from whatever had happened, whatever he’d just _felt_ , back inside.

            Unfortunately, the cause followed him out.

            “Mick!” He kept walking, ignoring the hurried footsteps behind him. “Mick!”

            A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, and he was suddenly eye to eye with Snart. He shoved the kid away. “I thought I said to leave me the fuck alone.”

            If he thought that was going to deter Leonard Snart, he was sadly mistaken. The kid sneered and pushed him back. “You’re the one who came up to _me._ I had it under control!”

            Mick let out a humorless laugh. “Sure looked like you were about to get your ass kicked to me. Or worse.”

            He turned to walk away again.

            “You know, for someone who wants me to leave them alone, you sure as hell seem overly concerned about what happens to me.”

            “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, brat,” He yelled behind him, not daring to look back. _Just keep walking_ , he told himself. _Just keep walking._

            “At least I know what I want!” Snart called back. “You’re too afraid to admit that you want me.”

            He should’ve kept walking. He shouldn’t have frozen in place, something hot filling his gut. He shouldn’t have rounded back on Snart, who flinched back slightly, and he _definitely_ shouldn’t have rushed him, grabbing him by his collar and pushing him against the alley wall.

            “What did you say?” he growled, pressing into Snart’s space. The kid didn’t look scared, though. If anything, he looked pleased with himself.

            He leaned in closer, so their lips were only an inch apart. “You heard me,” he whispered, his breath tickling Mick’s skin.

Mick didn’t know who started it. If he were being honest, he’s admit it was probably him. But he wasn’t an honest kind of guy, and he cursed Leonard Snart as their lips crashed together, just like in that old warehouse. Only, this time, instead of pushing Snart away, he pushed _closer_ , until there was no space between them.

            Snart moaned, his arms wrapping around Mick’s neck and his leg around his waist to push his hard bulge against Mick’s reluctant one. Everything in Mick’s head was saying to push away from Snart, to run as fast as he could in the other direction. But since when did any other part of his body listen to his head?

            Instead, he dropped his mouth to the pale expanse of Snart’s throat and started to decorate it with bright red hickeys. He groaned when Snart dropped his leg, but the other man let out a breathy laugh.

            “Mick…” he sighed, his hands dropping between them, “I need…I need _more_ …”

            The loud zip of Mick’s pants opening was almost enough to break him out of his lust-fueled assault, but then, Snart decided to shove his hand into his pants.

            “Leo…” Mick groaned as a tight grip wrapped around his aching cock.

            Snart buried his face in Mick’s neck, giving his cock a hard stroke. “It’s Len…call me _Len_ …”

            Why did that make everything so much easier? This wasn’t little Leo Snart, high as a kite in their cell while Mick took him for the first time. No, this was _Len_. Sexy, irresistible, infuriatingly persistent Len, who wanted him to take him in the alley behind Saints  & Sinners.

            Suddenly, he was pushed around, his back colliding with the brick. He frowned at Len, who just gave that classic Snart smirk back before dropping to his knees at Mick’s feet. He barely had time to glance down before his cock was enveloped in the smooth heat of Len’s mouth, a choked moan falling through his lips.

            Len thrived on his reactions. A devilish gleam glistened in his eyes as he started bobbing his head up and down Mick, slowly, then quick a few times, then torturously slow again. During one of the slow drags, Mick’s hips thrust forward to follow his retreating mouth.

            “Shit….” he hissed, but Len grabbed one of his hands and placed it on the back of his head. Mick raised an eyebrow. He didn’t mean…?

            A wink of his eye said otherwise.

            Without warning, Mick thrust into Len’s mouth. It took minutes, maybe less, before pleasure trickled through his body, his toes curled in his boots, and he groaned so loud, it echoed off the bricks. He’d expected Len to frown at the taste—he hadn’t given the kid much warning, and he always pulled out in juvie—but instead, Len drank it all, licking him clean and tucking him away. Mick panted, not wanting to admit that it was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen in his life.

            He noticed the bulge in Len’s pants, but the kid shook his head as he rose to his feet. “I’ll take care of it later.” He swooped in quickly to steal a long, dirty kiss, one that tasted like cum and alcohol, but was enticing and addicting.

            Len pulled away slowly, their lips barely brushing together. “This is the part,” he whispered, “where you tell me that I’m a mistake, and beat yourself up because you want me, even though you won’t admit it.”

            Mick swallowed hard. “Y—yeah…want you…” he managed to breathe incoherently. What was it that he was supposed to say?

            Then, the lips were gone. The heat from Len’s body was gone.

            Mick opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to see Len strolling away, his hands in his coat pocket and a self-assured skip in his step. “See you around, Mick!” he called over his shoulder, not even looking back at the man he’d left a panting mess against the wall.

            Damn him.

            Mick considered going back in the bar and drinking himself into a stupor, but the thought of seeing smirking faces as he walk of shamed out of the back alley made him reconsider. After all, he had a job with a new crew the next day, anyway. He usually didn’t care about first impressions, but this job was important. His hand went to the pocket with the time and address of the meeting. This is what he needed. A job, a smash and grab to get his mind off of Snart.

            He’d worry about stupid shit like feelings later. Mick Rory the man needed to take backseat to Mick Rory the criminal arsonist.

0000000

            Mick stepped into the warehouse the next morning, willing away the memory of Len’s lips wrapped around his cock, the way he moaned Mick’s name, his devouring kisses…

            He shook his head. He needed to focus on the job. The Santini’s wanted their money. He was a dead man without it.

            He strode inside, head held high…only to freeze in place.

            There was a table set up in the center of the room, covered in blueprints. Scudder was looking over them, along with two other guys Mick didn’t recognize. That’s not what stopped him, though.

            What made everything in his body freeze was Leonard Snart, pointing to the plans like the whole thing was his idea, his job, and, suddenly, everything made sense. How he’d gotten the job so easily, how the boss just knew about him, why Len had been watching him.

            Damn, he felt like a moron.

            Before he could turn and leave, though, Len raised his head. “Rory,” he called out, “glad to see you could make it. If you could join us for planning.”

            Then, he just went back to his plans, like Mick’s cock hadn’t been down his throat less than twenty-four hours before.

            _Isn’t that how you want it?_ A voice in Mick’s head asked.

            Yes. And no.

            It was complicated.

            Shoving his hands in his denim jacket, he stomped over to listen to Len’s plans. He was…pleasantly surprised. Len always was a smart one, but the plan he had was fool-proof. Scudder would create a diversion with one of the other guys across town, to keep the police occupied, while Len, Mick, and the second guy snuck into the Freeport warehouse. There, Len would disable the alarm, Mick would take out the guards, and other guy—Mick hadn’t bothered learning his name—would start loading the goods.

            “We’ll meet up at 9pm, sharp,” Len reminded them. “Anyone who’s late, answers to me.”

            He was good at sounding cold, like he would put them all down without a second thought, but Mick could see the truth in his eyes. He’d never killed. Probably never fired a weapon before, either. That’s what Mick was there for, anyway.

            That’s when a realization hit him.

            He waited for Scudder and the others to leave. No need for them to hear their business. When the door slammed shut, Mick rounded on Len.

            “I’m your guard dog.”

            Len, who’d been rolling up his blueprints, paused, frowning innocently at Mick. “What are you talking about?”

            “Why you wanted me on this job,” he snarled, stepping forward. “Why you were all over me at the bar. You’re trying to manipulate me, get me to watch your ass.”

            Len stared, slack jawed for a moment, before rolling his eyes. “Really? _That_ ’ _s_ what you think?”

“Yeah. That’s what I think. I’m not an idiot.”

Len scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me. In your mind, how long have I been planning this, Mick? Since the bar? Since I pulled that bullet out of you? Since _juvie_? Or maybe, just _maybe_ , I trust you, have you ever thought of that? Maybe out of every goddamned person on this Earth, I trust you because you’re the only fucking person who’s ever given a shit about me, who has protected me, even from himself!”

            He grabbed the table and flipped it, anger rolling off of him in waves. Mick’s heart nearly stopped. If he thought seductive Len was hot, furious Len was an inferno. Then, his entire body deflated. “What happened in juvie is always going to hang over us, isn’t it?” Len whispered suddenly, his eyes locked on the tossed table. “You’re never going to be able to move past it. You’ll always see me as weak little Leo Snart.”

            Something rotten twisted in Mick’s gut. It was a different kind of rotten than the one he usually felt when it came to Leonard Snart. He’d already ruined the kid’s already ruined childhood—though, for some reason, he seemed to look back on the events _fondly_ —and now, he was ruining his present by making him think that he wasn’t good enough for Mick. He wasn’t sure what Len wanted from him, but didn’t he owe the kid to give him whatever he could?

            A deep sigh pushed out of his chest. He held out a hand. “Name’s Mick Rory. I like fighting and starting fires. I don’t like going to prison, so I decided to sign on with the best up-and-comer I could find.”

            Len raised his head, his brow furled, eyes flickering between Mick’s face and outstretched hand. Tentatively, he accepted it. “Leonard Snart. People who I don’t hate call me ‘Len’, which is a shorter list than you think. I don’t put up with bullshit and only hire the best for my crews.”

            Mick smiled. “Good thing I’m the best at what I do, then.”

            Len gave him a relieved smile back. “We’ll see about that M _ick_.”

0000000

            A weight came off of Mick’s shoulders. The heaviness of his juvie memories were…not gone, but misplaced. Len wasn’t Leo. He was clever, quick, and quick to say what he did and didn’t want.

            When 9pm came, Mick wasn’t dreading the job. He was ready to get his money, pay off the Santini’s, and start again. There were only two guards by the door. Cake for Mick to take down. Then, Len got started on the alarm panel.

            After a few seconds, Mick noticed something was wrong. Len was concerned, his eyes darting around it questioningly.

            “Snart,” he asked, stepping up beside him, “what’s happening?”

            Len pulled at some wires once, twice, and then shook his head. “This isn’t right. This isn’t the control panel the plans said there was. This has been updated recently.”

            That wasn’t good. “Okay, then let’s get out of here. We’ll regroup and try again—”

            Len shook his head. “No, but it shouldn’t be wrong. Those were updated plans. At least that’s what I was told by…”

            The sound of gun clicking made Mick tense. He and Len shared a look before turning to face their assailant. The other member of the crew had his gun pointed at Len’s head, a killer gleam in his eyes.

            “You son of a bitch,” Len growled.  “You sold us out!”

            SOB just laughed, though. “Actually, Snart, this is the whole reason I took the job. Lucas Santini sends his regards, by the way.” He winked at Mick. “After that debacle a few years ago at the fundraiser, ol’ Lucas has been gunning for the two of you. He wanted you together, though. Something about watching each other die. So, he waited to send me until Rory was back in town. Somehow, you two always find one another.

            “The question now,” he continued, a sick grin on his face, “is which of you to kill first.” He moved the gun between them, like he was playing eeney meeny miney moe.

            When he moved it on Mick, Len’s hand shot for the back of his pants, and he drew a gun Mick hadn’t even realized he had. “Put the gun down, or I’ll drop you.”

            Len with a gun was attractive, sure, but that’s all it was. His hands were shaking, his stance was off, and it was obvious he wasn’t comfortable with a gun. SOB snorted, keeping his gun on Mick.

            “You won’t shoot me, Snart. You didn’t kill your daddy for beating you all those years. You want me to believe you’ll kill me for putting a bullet in Rory?”

            A trembling thumb pulled back the hammer. “I will,” Len warned.

            SOB didn’t seem convinced. He stepped forward, pressing the gun against Mick’s forehead. “Do it then, Snart. Because, if you don’t by the time I count to three, I’m going to blow your pretty boyfriend’s brains out.”

            Len’s grip tightened, and he didn’t lower his gun. “Drop your weapon!” he repeated. Mick knew it wasn’t going to happen, though. SOB was a hired gun, a psychopath who loved to kill for money and, if the gleam in his eye meant anything, the fun of it. He was going to shoot Mick just to hurt Len. Then, while Len was broken, he was going to kill him, too.

            SOB grinned manically. “One…”

            He was just far enough away that he could get a shot off before Mick could disarm him. Maybe if he rushed him, though…

            “Two…”

            Len was breathing heavy now, his eyes darting between Mick and SOB. He was starting to panic, to hyperventilate. SOB laughed at his terror.

            “Three.”

            A shot went off. A body dropped to the floor. Len froze in place, eyes wide and knees shaking from the effort of holding his body up. The end of his gun smoked. Sirens started a few streets over.

            Mick stepped over SOB, holding his hands out like Len was a frightened animal. “Len…Lenny? You okay?”

            He grabbed the end of the gun and carefully pulled it from Len’s fingers, but the latter’s eyes were still on the body on the ground. Leonard Snart’s first kill. And it was for Mick.

            But he would be shocked later. If he and Len didn’t get out, they were going to take the fall for everything. “Len, we gotta go!”

            He may as well have been talking to the dead body, though. He wasn’t going to leave Len behind—he owed him not to ruin his life again. Groaning, he bent down to wrap his arms around Len’s legs, throwing him over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Just as he was about to stand up, his eyes caught something shiny.

            He didn’t know what it was about it, but something drew Mick towards it, and he slipped it quickly into his pocket. Then, he ran out of the warehouse, making it to the escape van just as the police turned the corner into the warehouse.

0000000

            Len hadn’t moved since Mick brought him back to his apartment. He was on the couch, a blanket thrown over his shoulders, with a mug of cheap hot chocolate in his hands, and a thousand-yard stare. It’d been four hours since he dropped Santini’s assassin.

            Mick was worried. He didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t good at emotional shit, and he wasn’t sure where he and Len stood. So, he hovered in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, his eye on Len, but the back door close by, just in case. Had pulling that trigger broken something that couldn’t be fixed in him? Did his presence break yet another thing that wasn’t his to destroy?

            “Don’t do that.”

            He jumped, not expecting the weak voice. Len’s eyes were still staring into blank space, but some of the tension in his shoulders was gone.

            “Do what?”

            Sad, empty eyes finally met Mick’s as Len turned to face him. “Blame yourself. Push me away again. I don’t regret killing him. He was going to kill us both. It was self-defense. Even if it wasn’t, I would’ve done it anyway. No one got far as a criminal showing weakness. He turned on us, he was put down. That’s how things go in our world. I’m not fragile, and I make my own choices. I always have.”

            Mick didn’t even realize he’d stepped into the room until he was standing over Len. Silently, he dropped beside him on the sofa and leaned back, not knowing what to say. What was there to say? What could anyone say that could change Leonard Snart’s mind?

            Well, maybe…

            “Not s’long as I’m around. I’ll do the killing, the intimidating, anything you need. You be the brains.”

            A small smile pulled at Len’s lips, but didn’t make it past there. Instead, he nodded. “We better get started, then.”

            Right then, Mick knew everything would work out. If he didn’t pay back the Santini’s, they’d take down the Santini’s. If the cops arrested them, they’d break out. If anyone tried to stand between them, they’d die.

            Even when Len came back to their safe house talking about his dad knocking some lady up, giving him a new baby sister, Mick wasn’t worried about being replaced. Even when the Flash changed the game, they changed with it together. It didn’t matter why, or how their relationship started. What mattered was the now, and the now was that Mick Rory and Leonard Snart were the two toughest sons of bitches you could meet, and they knew it.

0000000

 _“Closest I ever came to dying was the day I met Mick […] He's been standing up for me ever since.”_  
  


 

           

           

 

 


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